


Lone Legionnaire

by freckledFirebrand



Category: Project Wingman (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Suffering, holy SHIT the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29119074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledFirebrand/pseuds/freckledFirebrand
Summary: Clarissa "Legion" McClaine isn't the happiest woman: more often than not, she works herself to the point of passing out as Ronin's logistics operator, all for the sake of trying to escape a cloud lingering over her. Legion, as a character, was designed by @LuzaitisActual on Twitter with help from the Project Wingman Discord.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! As mentioned in the summary, Legion is actually a friend of mine's character, @LuzaitisActual on Twitter! Be sure to check him out: https://twitter.com/LuzaitisActual  
> This was also written with help and advice from the Project Wingman Discord! Feel free to pop in and join us! https://discord.gg/WZaVRuSjpZ  
> Also, while it currently says 1/2 chapters, there's a *chance* I might write a third. I'm unsure as of now how much suffering I can write for Legion and how/when I want to,,, actually try to write some nice things happening to her.

The shitty lighting in the hangar that Clarissa “Legion” McClaine was stuck inventorying right now certainly didn’t help her waning eyesight. Her hands were shaking now from exhaustion, whatever was left in her system of the shitty instant coffee that she’d been cramming down by the spoonful hadn’t been giving her any more energy. Her eyes were struggling to focus, and in the back of her head, she was cursing out whatever idiot on Hitman team decided it was good to buy a plane that not only couldn’t mount anything besides their standard multipurpose missiles but also fired a different caliber cannon shell, had tires worth more than her monthly salary, and, based off of what she last remembered reading, flew worse than literally every other airframe that Sicario currently had.

She looked down at her clipboard again. No, actually, the damned thing didn’t even mount standard missiles, it only had fucking guns. As Legion’s mind processed that, it only exacerbated the sleep-deprived anger that she was feeling towards whichever Hitman idiot decided this was a good thing to spend however many fucking credits on. Still, she’d rather be here, getting ahead on tomorrow’s work, because somehow, despite the odds, she managed to finish her reports and orders early. Even if it meant trying to figure out some of the weirder details that would likely prop up for this plane’s maintenance and order the parts before the problems could even think about arising.

“Dustmother,” she mumbled softly, shaking her head. As she stood upright, she clanged her head on the underside of its wing, immediately falling down onto her back. Gently, she brought her left hand up to the top of her head and, satisfied with the fact that there wasn’t any blood on it – any blood that she could see, at least – she flopped her hand back down. Less gentle now, she returned the pen in her hand to her hair – only to find that there was already a pen there, so now there were two pens in her hair – and tried to push herself back upright.

She didn’t have the energy to push herself back upright.

The floor felt strangely comfortable, Legion thought as she felt her eyes fall closed and the blackness of passing out take over her once more.

When she became aware of her surroundings again, she wasn’t on the floor of Hitman’s team hangar. The area around her had morphed into a courtyard, an empty basketball court in front of her and a chain-link fence on the other side of that keeping her trapped in. She quickly became aware of the wall that she was leaning against, which she pushed herself off of as chills began to run down her back.

It was snowing out. Legion always hated the snow. It made doing anything difficult. The chills running down her spine, however, weren’t from the physical coldness of the air around her; they were from her mind recognizing once more the environment around her. “Not again,” she weakly muttered, forcing her eyes closed and hoping that, when she reopened them, she’d no longer be here.

When she reopened them, she was still in the empty courtyard. She tried again, closing her eyes and hoping for anything to change.

It still didn’t.

There was a slight shakiness in Legion’s breathing now. Behind her, she heard the sirens start once more. A few seconds later, the gunshots started, cracks and bangs coming from all around. None at her, not yet, but she knew if she stayed, they would be. She’d been shot once; having her brain relieve that pain again in a dream wasn’t something she wanted. Legion’s mind had already given her that dream once.

Deep breath, and a step forward. Legion slowly began to walk to the other side of the courtyard, to the fence. Under her bare hands, the metal of the fence felt like it threatened to freeze her skin to them, but as she looked up, she forced herself to become aware of the barbed wire atop it once more. She thought about the countless requisition orders that she’d filled out for materials like this and for its more painful siblings, and the thought drew a weak, tired, singular chuckle out of her.

At least it was only barbed wire, she thought, only barbed wire. Then, Legion started to climb, the tired woman’s movements surprisingly fluid, as if rehearsed a thousand times. At least in her dreams, she didn’t feel the same omnipresent exhaustion she felt in her daily life. Back then, she actually had some semblance of energy, even if her conscripters really didn’t want her to.

Back then, she wasn’t a soldier, even if she wore their clothes. She’d panicked. Though she still felt some of the same fear she felt then, it was dulled by the experiences that she’d had in the time since. As she began to near the top, Legion began to shift her weight to get to the other side, but in the process, she planted her right hand firmly on one of the barbs of the wire. The shock of the pain was enough for her to lose her balance; instead of dropping down like she wanted, she plummeted on her side to the ground.

Weakly, she tried to sit upright, but the second she put any force down on her left arm, she let out a large welp. Did the fall break it? In the back of her mind, she knew she didn’t have time to pause and think, her younger self screaming at her to ignore the pain and keep moving. Shifting slightly, she took advantage of her bleeding right hand instead to prop herself slightly upright before managing to get to her feet.

That was one wall that she made it through. The next one…

She heard shouting behind her. It was time to move. Weakly, she began to jog in the same direction that’d taken her to the first fence. She just had to run, she’ll make it this time. She’ll make it this time. For a split second, she turned to check back over her shoulder, to see if the soldiers were following her; in the time that it took her to do that split-second check, the razor wire fence she was still trying to figure out how to bypass caught her left arm, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. It cut effortlessly through the fatigues she was wearing, and only took slightly more effort to get through the skin on her arm.

She was stuck. This time, the pain didn’t draw any screams from her, but that was just because Legion’s mind was stuck on trying to manage the panic that was rising in the back of her mind. She hadn’t run that far, it shouldn’t be here, how did she run into it? It should’ve been another minute or two of running –

Enough, Legion decided. Taking in a shaky deep breath, she moved her bleeding right hand to try and tug the wire slightly away at a part where she didn’t see a blade, slow and gentle. She just had to get untangled, and she’d be fine. She could bypass it. She knew how.

She heard the soldier’s shouting behind her once more, and like that, her attempt at calming down shattered totally. She had to get out _now._ Yanking her arm out – an action that, while worked, deepened the cuts all over her hand and arm, she fell prone, and began to try to crawl. It’d cut her hair, her neck, her back, but she could get through. There was a gap, just barely big enough for her; she knew that from years of experience in working with concertina wire. She was making good progress, but it wasn’t a long distance. All she had to do was avoid –

A sharp pain coursed through her entire body as she put too much pressure on her broken arm, causing her to curl up in pain – an action that got her entire back truly caught in the razor wire. Every part of Legion’s body felt like it was on fire, the warmth of her own blood seeping out of the hundreds of cuts on her body being her only heat from the falling snow. She tried not to scream, but a bloodcurdling sound came out of her mouth nonetheless as she tried to fall back to the ground. She didn’t have any of the energy to keep crawling, she just hoped the pain would stop soon.

In the distance, she heard the soldiers again; suddenly, they were upon her. They were talking in words that Legion could understand but not words her brain was willing to make out, their voices simultaneously familiar and foreign at the same time as a siren’s call. She turned her head as much as she could to look at them, and they looked like amorphous military blobs to her eyes. Different from the people who had forced her to serve as a conscript, more disorganized, but familiar; in the dream, she wasn’t allowed to remember why.

One of them had bolt cutters. He opened them up, and to Legion’s terrified eyes, they seemed to be going in right for her neck.

Clarissa “Legion” McClaine didn’t shoot fully upright, but almost immediately as she woke up, she started to prop herself upright. Her body was drenched in sweat, causing her fatigues to awkwardly cling to her skin in all sorts of uncomfortable manners, her greyed hair matted to her face and neck, and, of all things, there was a blanket covering her – and the ground seemed surprisingly comfortable, too.

As she got her bearings, she realized she wasn’t in the hangar anymore: she was in a room, sparsely undecorated. Nicer quality than the barracks Ronin was saddled with, even if she never saw her own room in those barracks. Quieter, too. Based off of the two doors, it likely had an attached bathroom, too. Flyboys always had the nicest bunks on an airbase, Legion had realized during her time with Sicario, but this room lacked the usual flair that most of them had. Beyond the desk and the window that hadn’t even begun to let in dawn (though it was clearly threatening to start), the room… had nothing to it. Either whoever was here didn’t spend much time here, like her and her room, or they didn’t do much.

The words that she should have heard were echoing through her mind, now. Octo asking if they should kill her for the money, Crunch deciding to spare her. Her first encounter with Voodoo, who tended to the deep cuts across her back. Gently, she shifted upright, slouching over herself. Gently, she looked at the palm of her right hand: no scar. That was part of the dream. It changed, every so often. Small details like that. Sometimes, it hurt less; usually, it hurt more.

Her eyes drifted around the room once more. It really was a nicer room than most of the barracks at Rowsdower. Officer’s quarters, most likely, but… the CIF never entered any of the hangars Sicario were using; they were in charge of all of their own gear – she’d made sure of that the first time she caught some CIF POG almost fuck up her entire inventorying system.

She heard one of the doors to the room start to click, and on impulse, her left hand went to her hip where her carry pistol should’ve been. After that dream, her nerves were running high, and the fact that her pistol wasn’t there didn’t help. Trying to look as natural as she could, Legion let the tired look return to her face, a lethal gaze falling down onto her face.

“Oh. You woke up.” The voice was unfamiliar to her, as was the face of the pilot who was awkwardly stepping into what Legion could only assume to have been their room. “Sorry about… all of this. My WSO saw you passed out when she went to… well, begin looking over my new plane and decided that this was… my problem now. You’re Legion, right?”

Ah, this was Hitman’s flight lead, Legion realized. “Correct,” she flatly replied, her stare still threatening to burn a hole through Monarch’s forehead.

“I’m sorry that this is our… first real time talking, but Prez seems to really like you. I’m –”

“You’re Monarch. I know,” Legion interjected.

“Ah,” Monarch softly stammered, caught off guard as they continued to linger awkwardly in the doorway. “You, er. Seemed to be in a rather rough shape as you –”

“I’m _fine_ ,” came the curt interjection from Legion’s mouth before she could even think about blunting her words. It caught Monarch off guard once more, who stood there staring at her. There was a soft voice in her mind trying to coax her into apologizing, but before she even had the chance, Monarch just shook their head.

“If you… want to take a shower, I can grab a spare set of clothes for you. Or… if you’d be more comfortable with Prez –” Each of Monarch’s words were carefully placed, trying to neither offend nor insinuate anything, but that didn’t stop Legion from stopping them halfway through their words once more.

“I will,” she flatly said as she stood up from the bed, her slouch still present. She began to move to the other door and heard the door behind her start to close, but with a deep breath in, she turned and looked over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

Before the other door clicked shut, Monarch just softly said, “Yeah.”

Then, before silence could set once more, Clarissa “Legion” McClaine pushed through the door in front of her.

* * *

Before she served as the premier logistics coordinator between Ronin, Circus, and the various airborne forces that Sicario brought to the playing field, Clarissa wasn’t even a soldier. She was conscripted, but the shitty, backwater Periphery hole that she had called home offered “alternative” services to those who didn’t want to work in the military forces. Of course, that didn’t stop her from then being sent to a military base as a clerk, but it was removed enough from all the conflict and fighting that it felt safe. It could’ve maybe even been comfortable, but Clarissa remembered one thing: there was never enough hot water and what water there was was never hot enough, the memory sparked by the scalding water raining onto her skin. After all she’d been through, she found it surprisingly comfortable.

Awkwardly, she reached behind her head to undo the messy knot that she made daily to keep her hair in place without a hair tie. Hair ties were just one more thing to lose and, given the amount of damage her hair had already seen from stress alone, it was easy to realize that maintaining her grey hair wasn’t a high priority. It once was, Clarissa remembered as she tried to run a hand through it, though she stopped at the first knot. It was brown when she was still in the Periphery, just a little bit longer, and definitely cleaner. Her life had been easier back then; she had more time to actually try to care about it. She was just oversight to a military that was notoriously corrupt; the government apparently wanted to make sure no one had any wise ideas about stealing food so she was just there to overlook the numbers. They were always right, so it often felt pointless, but that never meant that Clarissa was not precise. At the time, she considered it a fault of hers, something she’d blame on her overly neurotic father.

He was a man obsessed with the old world, before all the ash had fell. The way he talked about it, it sometimes felt as though he loved the ghosts of past more than their family – it was obvious that he loved her and her mom, but it was unclear if he loved them more than the trash he dug out of the silt. He had a stockpile of “relics” in the basement of their home, meticulously organized. He’d spend weeks at a time, disappeared to some nice hole, only to return with a trunk load of bobbins that he’d spend the next week sorting. He was efficient at it, though: it wasn’t a “system” to her father, it was an _algorithm_ , and if called it a system, he’d spend the next hour ranting about every reason down the river that you were wrong. Clarissa had learned that mistake on two separate occasions, but after the second, the mental connection that formed was finally strong enough to make sure that Clarissa had known the system better than she knew her right hand. Her was neurotic, but efficient. Efficient enough, at least, that it meant Clarissa was left passing out at a desk adding numbers, instead of in hangars and storerooms still counting.

Usually.

All the efficiency in the world didn’t mean that she mourned him never returning. All the efficiency in the world just meant that she was useful. She didn’t waste time. As much as it left her exhausted, Legion’s work fulfilled her. The systems she set up here actually mattered, they weren’t just a waste of time – and funds – because a pencil pusher in a corrupt capitol was worried about the corrupt military taking two packages of instant coffee for their daily rations instead of just one. It wasn’t pointless now, and she may have been more comfortable then, sleeping in a bed and taking care of herself, not stressed to the point that she wasn’t sure if the stomach pains were from the coffee or from her body trying to get her to slow down. She had a system, and it worked, and unlike then, she found a sense of joy in her work. She almost would have called it happiness, but at the very least, she would settle for it taking up all of her time. By passing out at a desk, it meant that she’d wake up later than everyone else and wouldn’t have time _to_ waste.

Except for now. She had all the time in the world now. It wouldn’t matter if she spent all of her time in this shower or outside of it, she’d be left with the same thing: time to think.

Clarissa always hated the rare moments of introspection she got. Snow, sleep, and introspection: her three least favorite things.

Her hands paused as she grabbed the soap left in the shower. It was the name of some high-end brand that she only recognized from Sicario’s brief moments operating inside the megacity hellscapes of core Federation states thanks to all the advertising. It had never shown up on any of the supply paperwork, which meant either Monarch stole this from the Cascadians, or they were paying for it with their own funds whenever they did spend time in town. If it was the latter, she knew this bottle was worth… at least five containers of good, pre-ground coffee. What a waste of money, Clarissa thought. That didn’t stop her from scrubbing herself down with it, however. As her right hand – still no scar on the palm, she was now sure that the wound there had only been dream-inflicted suffering – ran down the very real scars on her left arm, she hesitated slightly. She wasn’t afraid of them, nor ashamed of them, but their presence was always an acknowledgement that the Clarissa she was died on the day that Ronin saved her life.

It wasn’t often that she wondered if that was a good or bad thing, and right now, she was doing her best to not try to wonder.

With a groan, Clarissa rested her head against the wall of the shower, resting her forehead against the warmed by steam tile as her eyes fluttered shut. She could feel a headache starting to set in, pressure slowly building behind her eyes and at her temples. Without opening her eyes, she flailed around as she tried to find the shower handle, accidentally turning the water even hotter before she managed to turn it off. She must have missed the door to the bathroom opening, because there was a neatly folded uniform resting on the counter besides the sink with, of all things, a white mug besides it. As the smell of soap and running water faded from her nose, she figured out just what the cup contained: coffee. Good coffee, too, based off of the smell. Grabbing a towel, she roughly patted her hair down besides curling it around her and she grabbed the mug, taking a sip.

It was sweet. Almost too sweet to her, actually. The instant coffee was bitter, and usually cold; this still had some semblance of warmth to it. It was too high-quality, too. Too many tastes to it. Whoever made it – somehow, she didn’t believe that damned pilot was the one who made this. Her gaze drifted to the uniform as her brow furled – it seemed to be taken right out of inventory. The inventory _she_ managed.

Her gaze narrowed as she took another sip of the coffee. That better have damned well been marked down somewhere. Turning her back to the mirror, she rested against the counter and slouched forward a bit over the cup. How _dare_ that pilot be nice to her. It made it a little bit harder to be pissed off at all the extra work that she’d been given. At least it wasn’t Ro—

Clarissa’s slowly drifting gaze caught sight of something out of place: a bright red sharps container. She knew that they only had a few of those, and because they were technically medical accessories, she wasn’t allowed to know _where_ they were going. Only Voodoo did. Interesting. She finally figured out too, then, where the extra syringes ordered were going. Still, part of her mind was questioning _why_ Monarch needed the extra medical supplies – were they diabetic? Even with Monarch’s supposed skills, the risk of a pilot just dying out of combat if supplies ran tight didn’t seem like something that Kaiser would risk.

It wasn’t her concern, at the end of the day, but it intrigued her. Gently, she brought the mug up to her lips once more.

“Dammit,” Legion murmured. “Empty already.”

With a sigh, she set the empty mug down and looked over the neatly folded uniform once more. It wasn’t too early to start her day, Clarissa admitted. After all, Legion had work to do.

* * *

“At this rate, we’ll have everything in place ahead of schedule!”

It was annoy Legion day, she had realized, because she hadn’t managed to shake off Fresh Meat in the past two hours. He’d apparently tried to bring her coffee again, but because she was already up and working and not asleep on a requisition form, she had initially missed him. Good, she’d thought then, because it meant she had more time to work, because he always was trying to talk to her. Normally, she could tune it out. Had she realized, though, that getting to work earlier meant that Crunch would send him after her to check in and help out if needed – FNG decided help out meant bringing _two_ cup of coffee as well as chatter, apparently – she wouldn’t have tried to get ahead on her work yesterday.

That stupid mistake last night had thrown her entire schedule off. “Great, ahead of schedule,” she muttered, “until one of you idiots decides that if you tried using _this_ carbine instead of the perfectly good one we already have ammo for because it _might_ make you exactly six-point-nine percent more tactically efficient, making me have to source an entirely new ammo pipeline that no one else on Ronin will use. At least Circus makes all of their assholes use the same gear, even if it means I have to order more of it.”

“Ah, c’mon Legion, that hasn’t happened since Strelok last tried,” Fresh Meat tried to reassure her.

Legion stopped dead in her tracks. “No one has _tried_ again because half of Ronin’s currently deployed to some off-shore rig, so they’re not here to bother me,” she mumbled, before shaking her head. “Fresh Meat, do you have something – no, _anything_ – better to be doing right now?”

With a hum, Fresh Meat stopped besides her and started to look up a bit, thinking. “Well, Voodoo needed help finding his skeleton –”

“His _what_.”

“His skeleton! Y’know, like the ones doctor’s have in their offices?”

Legion paused, completely dumbfounded. With a small tilt of her head, she stared at Fresh Meat. “Most doctors _don’t have skeletons_ in their offices. You’re thinking of a high school anatomy – wait, why the fuck does Voodoo have a high school anatomy skeleton in his office?”

“He’s Voodoo,” Fresh Meat responded. “So, no, I don’t really have anything else to be –”

“Yes you do,” Legion interrupted, looking around the storage room they were in and quickly making something up. “Go find Wraith for me and tell him the parts he ordered are here. Then, go find Gemini and tell her that I need her new shotgun.”

Legion watched as he gulped – good, one of those two made him nervous – and nodded. “Yes ma’am,” he replied, almost sounding slightly offended. It almost made Legion feel guilty, the keyword being almost. He scampered off, leaving Legion alone. She preferred it that way. It was easier to run through the system without him asking questions or making small talk, too.

Half an hour later, and the audit of Ronin’s inventory was done, something she could have gotten done with fifteen minutes quicker had Fresh Meat not been there, but at least she was still… an hour ahead of schedule. With a sigh, she left the storeroom and made it back to her desk. At least it was almost noon, now, thanks to the late sunrise that being this far north gave them as winter slowly died out. By all accounts, it was a lazier day than most of her norms. She even had time to eat lunch if she wanted to. Out of one of the desk’s drawers she pulled one of the many instant coffee packets that she’d raided from the MRE’s during their time at Rowsdower, before she stood up and began to walk towards the cafeteria.

She’d never actually spent much time there. Usually she was too busy to eat when everyone else was. That left her usually scrounging for light snacks throughout the day, though the copious amounts of instant coffee usually left her without feeling hunger for most of the day. Through the doors, Legion went, into a room full of mostly unfamiliar faces. Some were CIF, some were other mercs, and some were from Sicario too – but even then, she didn’t recognize most of them.

She did, however, recognize Ronin’s team lead, Crunch, at one of the tables that was empty except for him and one other girl who Legion didn’t recognize. Almost immediately, he caught Legion’s eye and waved her over, causing her to just shake her head and sigh – though, once she was done with her mild theatrics, she did give him a nod before going to get her food. Apparently, it seemed as though stir fry was the lunch option of the day: beef, rice, and a mess of vegetables all slathered in some sort of sauce that she didn’t recognize beyond it likely being from one of the Federation states on the _other_ side of the international date line. Whether or not it was better than the perfectly good cup of noodles that Legion had abandoned in her desk, she hadn’t decided.

Through the crowded lunchroom she marched, before almost robotically sitting down at the table opposite of Crunch and the girl. “Ah, you _are_ going to join us!” Crunch teased, seemingly playing up his heavy Oceanian accent for humor. “This here’s Prez, she’s Hitman’s crew chief as well as their flight lead’s wizzo.”

Legion gave a curt nod, not replying as began to eat. With a snort, Crunch explained to Prez, “Ah, don’t worry about her, she’s normally like this.” That earned a roll of Legion’s eyes, but Prez just chuckled.

“Trust me, Monarch’s not exactly much of a talker either. It’s a pleasure to properly meet you, Legion. I know I give you a lot of paperwork to do, but I don’t know if we’ve ever actually spoken,” Prez replied, and though Legion didn’t look up to her to make eye contact – the bowl of stir fry was _much_ more interesting – Legion could almost hear the smile in her face. “Just get back to the story.”

“Ah right, where was I?” Crunch replied with his own chuckle, and Legion could see him start to shuffle – likely bringing a hand up to his chin in his usual over-dramatic fashion. “Right, so, we’d just airdropped and had began our assault on the _Meilynx_ as your ace was decimating their air forces, and we had to protect Legion over there as we moved on the ship. Well, I say protect, but you should’ve seen her! It was methodical, poppin’ heads in order, one two three, and then repeating. She stole a fair number of _my_ kills, even!”

“You’re exaggerating,” Legion muttered, looking up at Crunch with raised eyebrows.

“Please, if you weren’t more valuable as keeping our messes clean back at base, I’d try to steal you for the front-line more often, Miss Perfect Logistician,” Crunch teased back, almost cackling now. With a shake of her head, Legion sighed and rolled her eyes again, but she could tell that both Prez and him were thoroughly amused. “You should see her out in our longer ops too, Prez, she’s got a magical knack for coordinating supplies in the field, too. Hell, she’s not half bad at coordinating Ronin, either. I’ve even had Kaiser ask me why she’s not leading Ronin by now!”

“Oh, has he?” Prez replied, leaning forward slightly. “Well, why aren’t you?”

Once more, Legion was dumbfounded, looking at the two of them with a tired stare. To her, the answer was rather self-evident. “Have you seen the idiots that I have to coordinate already? There’s not enough caffeine in all of Cascadia to give me the energy to deal with them even more,” she explained in a simple snark, the corners of her lips turning upwards proudly.

A snark that got Crunch smiling even wider. “Ah, you say that, but I can see you smiling now. We even got the rare joke from you, Leeg!”

The smile didn’t fade, but Legion did roll her eyes once more. “Speaking of having no energy, though, you feeling alright?” Prez asked, a mild look of concern in her eyes. That threatened the smile on Legion’s face. “I found you passed out this morning on the floor of our hangar under Monarch’s new plane as I was checking to make sure it had arrived and we weren’t going to need anything right away, but when I found you there…”

“I’m fine,” Legion curtly replied.

“Just checking – oh, how was the coffee as well? Monarch told me she found the mug empty.” Now, even Prez was trying to make small talk. With a pleading inflection in the cold stare she shot at Crunch, she tried to look for a polite way out, but Crunch just smirked, winked, and stood up, muttering a small goodbye as he left.

With a tired sigh, Legion turned back to Prez and said, “Too sweet.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s my bad. Monarch drinks tea, and I usually drink my coffee sweet, so I didn’t know how to make it for you,” Prez explained. “If… you don’t mind, how do you normally like it?”

“Instant. Cold water,” Legion flatly explained, though – just barely – less curt.

“I’m… not going to lie, that sounds kinda awful,” an astonished Prez replied. “But I can try, if you’d like? Or just try making it less sweet, which sounds better.”

“It is awful,” Legion replied. For a second, she paused, staring Prez down. The mechanic didn’t blink, just wore a sweet smile. With the tiniest shake of her head, Legion just said, “And… sure. If you want.”

“It’s the least I can do for all of the shit I put on your plate,” Prez said, her tone level in its appreciative softness. “Just find your way back to Monarch’s room if you want me to make some, else I’ll just have to track you down.”

“Understood,” Legion said, turning back to her food. It seemed Prez had finished her own and was just sticking around to talk, so when Legion signaled she just wanted to eat, Legion heard Prez stand up.

“I’ll be seeing you, then!” Prez exclaimed.

“Be seeing you,” Legion replied. She still didn’t look up.


	2. Chapter 2

It was around her neck. Oh gods, it was around her neck. Somehow, Legion had to try to force herself to be careful with her trembling breath; she felt the blade threatening to press right into her throat even further if she wasn’t careful. It was around the back of her neck, too, she couldn’t just pull away. She couldn’t just pull away. She wanted to just pull away, she just wanted to be anywhere but here, every muscle in Legion’s chest was strained trying to keep herself composed so that her breathing would cause her to physically hitch and drive her neck onto the razor wire but her muscles felt aflame as slowly Legion ran out of air and even though she was trying to reach up to push it away, every action seemed to just be drawing in the wire closer and closer to her neck and it felt as though it was starting to snake up across –

With a gasp, Legion woke up, her eyes shooting wide open as she instinctively curled up as much as she could, trying to make herself as small as she could, but there was something keeping her somewhat in place. She wasn’t at that base anymore. She was safe. She was caked in sweat and unbearably warm, but she was alive. She was going to remain alive, damn it. She was too fucking tired to die without getting at least one good night’s worth of sleep. With a deep breath in, Legion counted to four mentally, and as she let the breath out, she tried to force herself to collect herself and get her bearings. Once more, she repeated it; she never needed a third try. She had a killer headache, her breath reeked, and –

“Oh Dust,” she murmured under her breath as she realized that she had someone’s arms wrapped around her. Slowly, the memory fragments were falling into place: the first one was that she’d been drinking. With who? Crunch had invited her out, but… no, he left a bit earlier in the night, abandoning her with the rest of Ronin. Asshole. He’d been her exit strategy, and he’d left when she was in the middle of a shot. Without another way out of the bar, she’d been one of the last ones there, the only other ones being… Voodoo and Gemini.

Legion’s mind was screaming, even if she looked as stoically tired as she usually did. She never got drunk enough to pass the boundary to blacking out, but evidently, she’d gotten drunk enough last night to let her guard down. Mentally, she made a note to not drink until the next contract. She couldn’t afford something like that again with how Cascadia was currently going – they might have been winning, but that just left her fearful for when the tides turned. Maybe she was being pessimistic, maybe it was paranoid, but something about their victory after victory felt off to Legion. Almost as if it was too easy.

Solona had been a cakewalk, and the elements that were deployed to that offshore rig say that the security companies that the Federation hired were almost as pathetic. The reason they were drinking last night was to celebrate that last success, actually. That much Legion remembered.

She felt the person behind her shift slightly, and as they did, the last missing aspect of last night set in as she heard a tired mumble in her ear. “You good, Leeg?” Gemini’s voice was instantly recognizable, though the sobered – though very hungover – Legion was confused: she could have sworn that she’d seen Gemini pining after Fresh Meat in the past, the FNG too nervous to know how to actually respond.

“Yeah,” Legion responded, the usual flatness in her tone muted somewhat by her whispering. “I should be going, though.”

“Mmm… isn’t this your room, though?”

It was her room, though based on how empty and barren, it was easily mistakable for just an empty, unoccupied one. “Yeah,” Legion confirmed, “but I need to use the restroom.” That was only partially true; mostly, Legion wanted to wash the awful smell off of her. Her own smell was enough to remind her of the burning sensation of the hard liquor that she drinks, and after her dream, Legion just wanted to feel sterile for a little bit.

“Mmmm… okay,” Gemini murmured, seemingly content with that answer as well as on the verge of falling back to sleep at any moment. Without another word, her arms opened up and let Legion out. Like a rat, Legion took advantage of the escape avenue and got out of the bed, immediately making her way to her dresser to grab a change of clothes before she made her way into her bathroom. Compared to the rooms that the “officers”, including Hitman team, got, her room was far more cramped, and the bathroom showed that same design language in having barely enough room for her to get around in it or put anything down. Setting the clothes on what little counter space she had, she quickly grabbed her toothbrush, put some toothpaste on it, and turned the hot water dial of her shower all of the way open and got in.

It burnt, like usual, stinging indiscriminately across her skin and the fresh wounds that it bore. Across the back of her hand was a thin scratch, deep enough to cut her skin but not enough for her to even think about wasting Voodoo’s time; across her left wrist was a small burn from still-too-hot spilt coffee. Both screamed as she switched from brushing her teeth to trying to cleanse herself of the smell of last nights liquor, disappearing under the foam of first her shampoo and then her soap. Just as usual, there was more hair than a younger her would have liked to see falling down onto the drain, not one aspect of her sleep schedule, diet, or stress changing in the slightest. A younger her might have tried to change one of those; a younger Clarissa would have wanted her to smile at least a little bit more often and would have died if she saw what Legion now drank.

Legion made sure she didn’t spend too long in the shower. She didn’t have time to let her thoughts invade her mind today. It might have been a weekend, but just because most of Sicario – hell, most of Ronin – didn’t have anything planned didn’t mean that Legion didn’t. She was planning on getting ahead today, getting a few more orders pen marked and ready to go that, even if she couldn’t send them out until Monday, would at least make her life a bit easier come Monday and would let her focus on getting ahead on a different task then.

Dressed, she left the shower, and not to her surprise, Gemini was still there, but to her mild surprise, Gemini was awake. Despite likely having drunk more than she did last night and slept worse than she did – in the past, when she had been in a healthier place, Clarissa had a boyfriend at one point and a girlfriend at another, and though they never got any more intimate than cuddling, she’d been told several times that she had always been a rough sleeper – the far taller woman managed to look leagues better than Legion ever remembered seeing herself in the mirror, though that connection failed to stoke any deeper connection. “You look good,” Gemini said, and Legion must have only glared in reply without intending to, because she added, “I really mean it.”

“Thanks,” Legion mumbled afterwards, rolling her eyes even as she took the compliment. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

“Mmm, well, after losing my heater core –” Legion realized that must have been her “—I found it a bit hard to fall back asleep. Just a bit too cold for my tastes.”

“You must’ve loved the Creole,” Legion muttered, shaking her head. “You stayed why then?”

Gemini chuckled, amusement twinkling in her hazel eyes as she winked at Legion. “Mm, wanted to see you one more time before you threatened to do something awful to all my shotgun shells,” she joked. Legion rolled her eyes, once more, at Gemini’s comments. Then, taking in a deep breath, Gemini gently pointed out, “If you need –”

“You’re not my mother, and I’m fine,” Legion spat out on reflex, wincing at her own words after they came out. Gemini stared at her for a second, and for once, Legion almost felt ashamed. She’d been standing up too straight, she realized; slowly, she began to slouch forward once more, tilting her gaze slightly downwards.

“Mmm.” Gemini’s soft murmuring seemed to be coming out as a soft drumroll to a deeper thought, but no words came. Out of the corner of her eye, Legion saw movement, but she didn’t have time to react before Gemini’s arms were around her. It was unbearably tight and warm, but this early in the morning, Legion didn’t have the energy to struggle or to try to get out. “You’re not.”

Ever so slightly, Legion began to sink into the hug, disarmed by the simple callout; almost as soon as the taller woman had wrapped her arms around her, however, she was released, with Gemini making her way for the door. Her hand on the knob, she paused. “If you were worried, we didn’t do anything. As soon as you got back here, you passed out,” she explained.

Of all the things on Legion’s mind, what had happened last night wasn’t one of them. It still wasn’t, really, but she managed to squeeze a weak “good” from her voice.

Twisting the knob, Gemini began to step through the door, before she paused once more. “Also… Fresh Meat really likes you. Do you… want him to back off at all?”

With a deep breath in, Legion didn’t make any motions. Weakly, she just said, “I’ll tell him myself.”

Gemini nodded, and she left.

Clarissa was left alone once more. She dug this hole, but it was a familiar hole. Comfortable, almost. She couldn’t help but wonder, though, did everyone see through her that easily? Did they see her as a hard worker who maybe worked a bit too hard, or as a dysfunctional person who only existed to work? She knew, deep down, that she was the latter. She preferred being the latter, as it was better than being a dysfunctional person who had no reason to exist; through her work, she at least could help people she cared about. Make it easier for them. If they were happy, she could be happy too, at least somewhat. And it’s not like she was unhappy.

But maybe the fact that she wasn’t unhappy was the problem. The only emotions Legion recognized on a daily basis were stress and exhaustion, both distinctly unpleasant but not distinctly unhappy. Besides the occasional smile that Ronin sometimes got out of her (or, on a truly lucky day, the rest of Sicario), Legion didn’t feel anything that could even be related to happiness. Sometimes it felt good to finish work early, but she never let herself savor that, either. There was always –

She was thinking again, trapping herself in her own mind. Forcing herself to move, she went to the door and followed Gemini out of it, but the taller woman was already long gone. Shutting the door behind her, Legion couldn’t let herself stop. One foot after the other, she began to stalk through the halls. It was too early to start working; if she started working now, she’d end early, if she ended early, she’d have time alone, late at night again. Late nights and early mornings were, usually the worst. Too easy to fall asleep. Too easy to be forced to remember, with a whole lot of nothing to do.

Her hip felt empty without her pistol and its holster on it, but she didn’t dare turn back now to go get it. She just had to keep –

If there was one consistent problem to both Legion’s height and to her slouch, it meant that sometimes she was too busy looking at the ground to see the people right in front of her. She was stable enough to not go to the ground, but she couldn’t say the same for the other woman. Awkwardly, Legion looked at her, the vaguest suggestion of shock and perhaps awkward apologeticness tugging at her eyes and her lips and recognized it as none other than Prez.

“Oh! Sorry about that, Legion” Prez exclaimed, taking ownership of the mistake instantly.

“Don’t be,” Legion said. By the time the synapses fired to make her think that she should maybe offer out a helping hand, Prez had already managed to get herself back upright, Legion’s eyes tracking like a hawk – or maybe a vulture – the entire time.

“You’re up rather early.” Despite her usual annoyance when people pointed out the obvious, Legion couldn’t muster to be irritated with Prez right now.

Instead, she weakly snarked back, “One could say the same about you.”

Prez gave an amused, if slightly awkward, chuckle back as she brushed her hand against the back of her neck, shrugging. “Monarch prefers to work out early in the morning, cause it’s less busy, and she needs someone to spot with her. Plus, it helps me to work out too.”

“I see,” Legion said, preparing to move past Prez, until she hesitated as she remembered Prez’s prior offer. “Do you have time for coffee?”

“Well, I…” Prez began, before she made as close to eye contact with she could with Legion and cut herself off. “Of course I can.”

There was a softness in Prez’s tone that caught Legion off guard, and it made her suspicious. At some level, it felt too easy, and Legion was on step away from asking if Prez was pitying her, one wrong glance from lashing out with her cold tone.

Without another word, however, Prez began to walk off, and Legion’s silent approach to indignancy faded as Prez lead the way.

* * *

The first thing that Legion thought as she entered Prez’s dorm in the barracks was how simplistic it was, once the shock of finding out that Hitman’s flight chief and flight lead’s WSO hadn’t chosen the nicer rooms that the rest of Hitman had taken subsided. There were fairy lights strewn across the walls, replacing the harsh light that the rooms normally had with something at least a little bit softer – even if, in Legion’s snarking mind, they were a bit basic. On her desk was a single serve coffee maker, which she fed using two water bottles that she pulled out of a minifridge, and atop Prez’s dresser was a photograph that, Legion assumed, captured her and all of her family. There were some other decorations that didn’t draw they eye, nothing that proclaimed “Live, Laugh, Love” or similar “motivational” quote, but still what Crunch would jokingly insist upon calling “kitsch” whenever they stumbled upon something like that in the field.

Prez had instructed her to sit at a low, small, covered table in the center of the room and to wait for just a moment, which Legion did without complaint, sitting on her knees and rejecting the warmth of the table’s blanket. The decorations in the room had been enough of a distraction to let Legion’s mind wander without thought; her drifting mind was only called back into focus by Prez setting a mug that read “You’re awesome, keep that shit up” down in front of her and then sitting across from her. “So, what’d you want to talk about?” Prez asked, her tone simple – sweet and curious, almost, but not overtly so.

Legion’s brow furled. “How’d you know that I wanted to talk?”

“It was obvious that you didn’t want to be left alone, at least,” Prez replied, her tone just a twinge more indifferent. “I figured that you had something on your mind that you wanted to talk about.”

Her brow still furled, Legion muttered back, “I see.” For a second, she paused, before wrapping both of her hands around the cup of coffee and taking a sip. Too hot, though that wasn’t too much of a problem, but distinctly less sweet. Still higher quality than she deserved or cared to drink, but she wasn’t about to spit it out because of that.

“How’s the coffee, then?”

“Better.” The curtness of Legion’s reply, apparently, was enough to set Prez off, the slightly shorter girl breaking out in laughter at that. Prez’s amusement brought a slight redness to Legion’s cheeks, but she didn’t say anything more.

“I can… I can work with better,” Prez managed to stammer out once her laughter died down, but without the laughter, the room quickly fell back into an awkward silence. Prez clearly didn’t like it, even if Legion didn’t mind, and it drew her to pose another question: “What kind of coffee _do_ you like?”

“Instant, cold. You asked that before.”

Prez blinked slowly back at Legion. Then, her eyes went wide, and she laughed a little bit more. “I did, didn’t I,” she murmured to herself at first, before adding more clearly, “I guess I owe you another cup of coffee then, and I’ll try to remember. I’m surprised you remembered that, though.”

With a shrug, Legion stated, “Good inventories demand good minds.” At some level, it was the nicest thing she’d said about herself in a while. A bit more softly, she added, “I mostly drink it just because it’s what I’m used to.”

“How much of that stuff do you drink that you’re used to MRE-grade instant coffee?”

Another shrug from Legion. “Most of Ronin’s.”

Silence fell down once more as Prez, astonished, just stared at Legion. “Wow, you _really_ need to get a better sense of taste then, Legion.”

“My sense of taste is just _fine_ , thank you.” Legion’s response was equal parts indignant as it was instinctive, her words lashing out surgically.

For a second more, Prez just stared. Then, she snorted and shook her head. “Sure, and I’m Hitman’s best pilot.” For whatever reason, Legion’s eyes fell to Prez’s own mug as she took a drink of it, and sure enough, Prez’s mug said “Hitman team’s best pilot (and friend)”. She raised a quizzical eyebrow, before Prez explained, “Okay, fine, it was a gag gift from Diplomat. Sue me.”

“Heh,” Legion softly let out as the corners of her lips softly flicked upwards. Prez’s own smile seemed to strength under Legion’s approving response, and though silence returned for just another few seconds, it was far more comfortable this time to listen to the creaking and hissing of the building. As her eyes drifted around the room, Legion couldn’t help but to comment, “This is an interesting room.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

For a second, Legion had to pause, narrowing her eyes a bit before resigning to shrugging. “You act very differently than most of the people who decorate their rooms like this.”

Prez just rolled her eyes. “If you want to call me a tomboy, you can just do it, I’m used to it,” she exasperatedly replied, adding, “You wouldn’t be the first here to do so.”

“Not a fan?”

“I’m just Prez,” she admitted. “Sometimes the people we work with treat me differently, and it feels like they’re just trying to call me cute and simplify me down to… well, just my gender.”

“Huh,” Legion murmured, “that does make sense.”

“You got anything like that?” Prez asked, obviously leading the conversation in a way to try and get Legion to reveal more about herself. “Things that people call you that bother you.”

“No.” Legion’s reply was honest. “There’s nothing that people say about me that upsets me. It’s how they act. They’re either afraid of me, or they think that I need their pity.”

“People pity you?” Prez asked, astonished. “You don’t seem very pitiful.”

“You haven’t seen enough of me, then,” Legion curtly replied, swirling around what was left of her coffee and staring into it.

“I don’t think many people get to see you that much,” Prez pointed out. “I mean, I’ve been with Sicario for a few years and I can only now count our interactions in person on both of my hands. Usually, it’s just dropping a form off and then disappearing.”

“I prefer it that way,” Legion admitted, before looking back up at Prez. “It’s not personal. It’s how I’d prefer most things be. Keeps things cleaner.”

“Y’know, I imagine that only makes some people want to get to know you better,” Prez pointed out with a small chuckle.

“It would be their loss, then,” Legion flatly remarked with a small shrug. “I’m not that interesting. I’m either sitting at a desk or counting shelves most days. Or shouting at people to fall in line.”

“Oh right, didn’t Crunch say somethin’ about that?”

“He’s exaggerating. He wouldn’t be a good storyteller if he didn’t.”

“I mean, I’ve heard of the briefings you give to some of the other mercs’ support forces. It always sounded like you’ve got a good grasp on the situation,” Prez pointed out. None of the words she said sounded like they were meant to be the vapid flattery that some people – especially Fresh Meat – liked to give her, but a genuine remark.

“Yelling at idiots what to do and what’s expected of them isn’t leadership,” Legion bitterly said. “It’s a sign of seizing as much control as possible.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Prez asked, her tone soft and curious, but the words went off like a gunshot in Legion’s mind. There was a part of her brain that immediately went on the defensive, trying to play down how the words were echoing in Legion’s mind.

“Yes,” Legion weakly responded, her gaze returning to her mug once more.

“Oh, I didn’t –” Prez tried to begin to respond, but Legion shook her head and cut her off.

“It’s okay. Don’t waste your breath apologizing.”

“…is that why you worry that people think you’re pitiful?” Prez gently asked, and Legion heard her start to shuffle around.

“No, it’s…” Legion tried to begin, but she was quickly at a loss of words. She felt a gentle hand rest down upon her forearm, which she shook off without a second thought. “It’s a lot of things.”

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“No,” Legion honestly replied once more. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw what looked like Prez nodding.

“Alright. I won’t pry. But just know that people caring about you isn’t because they pity you, Legion. It’s because they just want you to be okay.”

“Yeah.” Legion’s voice was hollow now. “I know.” Her words were dishonest now, because she at some level, her brain refused to accept any truth found within Prez’s words.

“Alright,” Prez gently said, and Legion heard her take in a breath to say more, but a knock at the door cut it short as she stood up. “I… think that’s my cue that I’m actually needed in the gym now, sorry.” To Prez’s credit, her words came across as genuinely apologetic to Legion; in her time at Sicario, it was a tone she’d not heard often in words directed towards her. “Feel free to stop by whenever, yeah? I won’t presume anything about friendship, but I enjoy talking to you.”

“Yeah.” Beyond a slight coldness, Legion’s voice still lacked any emotion as she stood up herself and went over to the door. Opening it, she looked over her shoulder and said, “I’ll be seeing you, then.”

Legion didn’t wait to hear Prez’s reply, or acknowledge Monarch’s presence either, before she left. Mentally, she was already preparing to block this all off, to be filed and processed at another time when she had a bit more mental willpower and wasn’t nursing off a fading hangover. Besides, she had work to do.

* * *

All of the papers on her desk were tidier than how she had left them Saturday.

That was the first clue to Legion that something was wrong.

The second was the different handwriting on all of the forms she’d left unfinished; it wasn’t one she immediately recognized. Then again, she normally was the only one to touch any of these forms before she started submitting orders, so _any_ handwriting that wasn’t her own set off alarm bells. They were all done right, too, which was something that surprised Legion as she double-checked every one of them, trying to recover her own sanity. Did she manage to come in drunk and forget that? She didn’t drink that much, but the possibility didn’t leave her mind; then again, she realized that the fact that the handwriting was more legible than her normal chicken scratch made it unlikely it had been a drunk her.

At some level, Legion was relieved to not have to waste her own time filling out these forms; at the same time, she was pissed that she had to waste her time double checking, as well as the fact that this meant that someone else was doing her own work for her. She lived for her work, so for someone to take her work from her was akin to the sin of taking part of her life to her mind. The only question that lingered in her mind was who would not only be stupid enough to do her job for her, but to do so on a _Saturday_ when they could have spent their time doing anything else.

Someone clearing their throat tore Legion’s mind away from the countless papers in front of her, her head tilting ever-so-slightly to not just stare at her desk. There stood Fresh Meat, with a cup of coffee in each hand. “I, ah, figured you could use this after last night,” he nervously offered; his nervousness didn’t seem to be helped in the slightest from the death glare that Legion was – fully accidentally – giving him.

With a few slow blinks as she continued to eye Fresh Meat with mild suspicion, Legion finally nodded and shifted a bit more upright so that, instead of slouching over her desk, she was just slouching instead; when he offered out the mug, Legion simply took it and began to take a few sips. The coffee was burnt and, if she didn’t know better, Legion likely would have assumed that the kid in front of her didn’t know what he was doing, but if she had to guess, it was likely ruined by nervous indecision.

Still, it was decent enough for her second cup of coffee for the day.

“So, uh, was everything correct?” Fresh Meat asked, giving Legion a weak smile.

“It was good enough,” Legion curtly replied.

“Ah!” He paused. “That’s good!” His words were uncertain. “I noticed that you seemed to be a bit behind and could use some help, so…”

“Why?” Legion directly asked, catching Fresh Meat off of what little guard he had managed to rebuild.

After a second, he shyly asked, “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“Why waste your time here? There are certainly better things you could be doing.” Legion was slowly slouching back over her desk, practically curling up around the coffee.

“Well, I thought that you could use the help, and…”

“Kid –” Fresh Meat was only two or three years younger than her, but it felt good to say nonetheless given that he was the newest addition to Ronin “—don’t waste your own time or my time by doing that. If you want to get into someone’s good favors, get into Gemini’s; don’t waste your time trying to get me to have a good opinion on you or trying to get into my pants.”

Fresh Meat took a step back as his eyes went wide. “Wait, do you think I’m trying to –”

“You’ve been following me around practically nonstop until I do something to deliberately get rid of you, helping me out with things I _don’t_ need help with, and being overly kind with me. You’re either trying to get with me, or you’ve got too big of a heart for this line of work.”

The two of them were silent for the better part of a minute, Legion’s last words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. She felt a tinge of either pity or pain at how deeply she lashed at Fresh Meat, but the words had felt beyond good to say. By the time she was starting to get lost into her own feelings, she recognized Fresh Meat’s voice quietly ring out once more.

“I’m not. I’m just trying to help. You just seem like you need…”

“The most help,” Legion answered for him. With a sigh, she set down the mug and gently began to rub her temples with her middle finger and thumb on her right hand, before slowly shaking her head. “Look, New Guy. I get you’re trying to be nice. Just don’t waste it on me. I don’t want to make friends with anyone who I’m not sure if they’ll take a bullet or not.”

Fresh Meat took in a deep breath, and Legion simply watched as he tried to steady himself. After a moment or two more, he just said, “We don’t have to be friends, then. Just let me know if I can help.” There was an obvious tone of dejection in his voice, a tone that made Clarissa grit her teeth and pause for just one more second.

Then, with a one more sigh and one more shake of her head, Legion just said, “If you want to help, how do you feel about driving?”

* * *

Herself, she hated driving. The window was rolled down, and her head rested atop her hand as she leaned against the armrest on her door and stared at the hills. The snow that was there when they first landed at Rowsdower had melted with the season change, forcing Legion to actually remember how long that Sicario had actually been part of this contract.

The heroes of this contract, if the CIF grunts who’s murmuring she overheard was to be believed; the thieves of this contract who stole money that other mercs could have been making had it not been for that damned crown, if the whining of the other mercenaries at Rowsdower was to be believed. The low rumble of the eight cylinder engine filled her ears more than the sounds of the road, the wind, or the radio did; the truck that they commandeered from the motor was an older civilian model that no one would miss for the day. It was a mechanics dream truck, but to Legion, it was just uncomfortable and slow.

At least she didn’t have to drive it.

“So, what are we looking for when we get into town again?” Fresh Meat practically had to shout over the rush of the wind rushing into the cabin to get himself heard. Out of a desire to not have to do the same, Legion rolled up her window before she responded, peeling her eyes away from the land racing by as she did so.

“An outdoorsman’s shop first, then a pawn shop,” she calmly explained.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re looking for?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. Pulling down the mirror, Legion gave herself the vaguest look over that she could. Surprisingly, the tactical hoodie she wore, once stripped of its patches, pouches, and without any other gear passed surprisingly well as just normal – if maybe a bit dorky – clothes, and the aviators she was wearing… well, they covered up the bags under her eyes, and the person she used to be would be grateful for that at the very least. For a second, when she saw her hairline, she thought she saw a small patch of brown among the sea of grey and white hair that’d flocked to the top of her head over the “better” parts of the last decade, but when she looked back to the mirror to confirm, she couldn’t find it anymore. With a sigh, she returned to staring outside. “I need you to keep the car running.”

“You’re not expecting…”

“No, I’m not, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.” She fought the novice urge for her hand to drift over the gun she was carrying at her side, even if she desperately wanted to adjust it as she became acutely aware of the hammer digging into her side. At some level, though, it forced her to be cognicant of one thing she was grateful: though Ronin lacked almost any sense of standardization, at least most of them preferred some sort of Wonder Nine like the one she had herself.

Even if every single one of them that did had a different preference for ammunition type and load.

Without intending to, Legion let out a sigh. “Everything good?” Fresh Meat asked, his voice cautious.

The town was approaching now, and Legion could feel the vehicle slowing down. “Yeah,” she replied. “Everything’s fine.” For once, it didn’t feel forced. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fresh Meat turn to her, pause for a second, before looking away once more with a small chuckle. Confused, Legion turned, and still unable to place the smile on Fresh Meat’s lips, she asked, “What’s up with the smile?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied with another small laugh. Legion just rolled her eyes and looked back out the window.

They spent a few more minutes driving like that, easily doing a loop through all of the small town Rowsdower was closest to in the time, and only spotting a chain coffee shop and a pawn shop for their efforts. It would have to do, Legion decided. Without much need for talk, the duo parked, and Legion went inside, a bell ringing as she entered while she was glancing over her shoulder for an extremely brief moment at the truck. There was a wooden smell to the pawn shop, but beyond that, it was surprisingly barren; rifles lined the back wall, some with bayonets and some without, the display case separating her from them was filled with a few pistols and revolvers, and the rest of the store was a mishmash of used tools, electronics, and accessories, with a few knives here and there. Upon a closer inspection of the rifles, Legion quickly realized that none of them were fit for any sort of usage whatsoever, at least not in their current state: she could easily recognize the sorry state they were all in. She had one easy guess where they came from, but she wasn’t about to say it out loud.

One rifle, though, did catch her eye: a bolt-action that she immediately recognized was missing most of its receiver. It had a bayonet, too – and out of all of the knives in the store, Legion easily recognized it as the nicest one. It wasn’t too combat practical, but it was polished to a shine, with a surprisingly beautiful handle for the broken state the rifle was in. A portly man wearing a red and black flannel, a toothy grin plastered on his face, had finally appeared from somewhere back in the shop, and he looked Legion up and down once. “Anything you’ve got your eyes set—”

“Yeah,” she interrupted, drawing an immediate frown onto the man’s face. “How much for the bayonet of that broken bolt-action?”

“Why, that rifle ain’t broken, it’s a perfectly damned fine rifle,” the man grumbled as he turned around to look at it, either lying right through his teeth or just that damned dumb. He gave a small chuckle as he saw the rifle, though, and the toothy grin seemed to gain a sly glint to it as he turned back around and stared down hard at Legion. “Well, that rifle there’s on commission as a _package_ deal, so I can’t just—”

“Is one hundred credits enough for the knife?”

“Miss, I’m in a _legally-bind’n_ contract, I can’t just sell you the knife. Now, if you want the package…” he curtly explained, even if he let loose a far heartier chuckle as he turned back around once more and grabbed the rifle, setting it down between them. “Now, if you _do_ want it, I’m thinking… four thousand.”

“You’re kidding me,” Legion muttered under her breath. “It’s non-functional and you’re asking five times what the thing is worth new.”

“It is _perfectly functional_ , and I think I know a thing or two more about guns than you do, lil’ thing,” the portly man explained. Legion had to physically bite her tongue to stop her response. “And due to the _war_ goin’ on, everyone’s buying whatever they can get their—”

“Thirty-seven hundred.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Deal.” Anything to get away from this bumbling idiot, even if it meant lower quality instant noodles for the rest of the month. Immediately, Legion reached back for her wallet, only just barely keeping her pistol concealed under her hoodie. As she flipped it open, she began to reach for her ID.

“Don’t bother wit’your ID. System’s been down for months now, so there’s no point in it.”

Legion just handed him a plastic card instead. Within the minute, the transaction was completed. “Would you like a case for that?” the man asked as she grabbed the dysfunctional carbine, but Legion was already almost out the door with the rifle as he finished the last word.

The truck, however, wasn’t where she left it. Legion’s grip on the rifle tightened a bit as she began to scan the surroundings, only lightening up as she saw the truck begin to pull up. With a solid thud, she opened the door and, with an even more solid slam, shut the door behind her. “Sorry about that, I figured…” Fresh Meat began, before tilting his head towards the two cups of coffee in the center console, “that it would take more than five minutes.”

Then, he paused.

“Wait, isn’t that the same kind of rifle that –”

“Crunch uses? Yes,” Legion answered. Setting the butt on the floor, she unmounted the bayonet, before lifting the rifle and tossing it behind their seats in the cab. Inspecting the knife in her right hand, she picked up her coffee with her left and began to sip it, only to stop as she saw Fresh Meat reach for the other cup. Glaring at him, he sighed, and pulled his hand away. “Alright, you deserve it.”

“You’re goddamned right I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... likely the happiest this fic is going to be, I'm warning you now. The next chapter is going to be *extremely* dark.


	3. Chapter 3

15.2x169mm, APFSDS. 12 gauge, brass shells, double ought buck. 7.92x57mm, tracer. 7.62x63mm, AP-I. 7.62x51mm, FMJ. 5.56x45mm, match grade. Legion watched as the last crates of each, all on their nice fancy pallets, got loaded onto the last Circus plane on base, a clipboard in her hands as her automatic-rifle-turned-marksman’s-rifle hung heavily off her back while she double checked everything else loaded onto the vast plane. Parts for their weapons, rations, explosives, everything that Ronin would need to fight as they always did for however much longer the conflict lasted; they fully expected that today would be the last day that any of them saw Rowsdower. It was what all the logistics and preparations that they’d put in place had been preparing for.

The other Circus transports had already been deployed, paradropping in Sicario’s paratroopers already; in just a few minutes, she’d be airborne too, setting up a logistical resupply first and foremost for Ronin’s elements already deployed. A few missing pallets had reappeared at the last minute, delaying them right as they had begun to pull out of the hangar to take off, and it was easier to leave the plane partially exposed to hastily load instead of following the true and proper procedures. With those last things secured and loaded, they could finally take off and rejoin the rest of the party – or at least Ronin’s party. The rest of Sicario could work with the CIF for now, but it isn’t like anyone expected for the conflict to last long. Prospero was the last city they had to take before they’d be able to take Presidia, and the Federation had already been faltering against every push made.

Prospero, Legion thought, what a weird name for a city; was it named after someone, or was it named after its prosperity? If it was the latter, it only helped fuel Legion’s unease about how easily the war had been going. For Sicario, for the CIF, for everyone but the Federation really, this war had been prosperous; she could only wonder how much Sicario’s top dogs like Hitman team had raked in during this conflict. Herself, she wasn’t too concerned about the money – no one on Ronin really was – but being able to live comfortably was definitely not something she knew that she would ever have to worry about.

If there was such a thing for her.

Legion’s brow furled as she looked out of the back of the open Circus transport, pausing for a second. They should be preparing to take off by now, but there wasn’t any update. Something felt off, and it was only further unnerving Legion about the current situation. With only the vaguest sense of trepidation in her steps, she turned to walk towards the front of the craft, moving past all of the cargo as she made her way to the cockpit. Every step she took, scanning the cargo up and down as she went, didn’t reassure her nerves, nor did the relative silence in the cockpit as she opened the door. “What’s going on? Why the fuck are we still here?” she barked, venom overwhelming nerves in her voice.

The copilot turned to her, and he just shrugged. “We don’t know. Tower grounded us for now.”

“Why the fuck did they ground us?”

“Didn’t say, just that there’s something going on. We’re waiting on an update.”

“No shit, there’s a war.” A dumbstruck Legion stared at the pilot, narrowing her eyes as she let her frustration overpower the deep pit of realization that something, most definitely, was wrong.

“Something more,” the copilot said.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Legion muttered back, shaking her head. “Let me fucking talk to—”

The radio crackled to life loud enough that it interrupted Legion as she felt a tremble begin to shake the plane. “This is Izumi Station out by Soctavia City. This is a regionwide alert to anyone on this frequency. We have tremors spreading out rapidly from the Prospero hub. Stand by for further updates.”

“The fuck?” both Legion and the Pilot muttered on beat. Kaiser’s voice came on louder over the voice that had continued to speak, rambling on some sort of warning.

“Galaxy had sent out a warning to ALCON over Prospero, it just now reached us. Federation cruise missiles.”

“Reports of latent cordium reaction to atmospheric conditions. Everyone is advised to take shelter indoors effective immediately,” the unfamiliar voice underneath Kaiser’s reported.

The three of them in the cockpit began to stare at each other; the rest of the words were a blur. Out of the back of the plane, Legion stared as the last words of the jumbled transmissions rang clearly once more through her ears. “The Ring of Fire is going active in Cascadia! It’s cooking off!”

Without a word, Legion went over to her station aboard the plane as its – temporarily, admittedly – loadmaster and shut the cargo door to the jet. She could feel the entire airframe shuddering under her feet now; she had always hated whenever she had been put on one of these damned cargo buckets, and the sudden volatility of the situation wasn’t helping in the slightest. Slowly, the cargo door closed, and right as it did, Legion saw orange explosions begin to crest the distant hills around Rowsdower as the dormant volcanoes that, apparently, surrounded them began to cook off.

There wasn’t an overwhelming sense of dread or horror in Legion’s gut anymore. Now, everything that she had felt was replaced with an overwhelming sense of numbness. With a blank stare, she went back into the cockpit, and she ordered, “We have to take off now.”

“Are you crazy?!” the copilot responded. “The world’s ending out there! We have to stay in place!”

“We’ll die if we stay here waiting!” Legion shouted back.

“And we’ll die in the air, too!” An orange bolt of lightning punctuated his words.

“So will all of Ronin if we don’t get them these fucking supplies!”

Kaiser’s voice came on once more over the radio. “Miss Legion, Ronin is perfectly capable of handling themselves.” There were few people who could get away with addressing her like that, and besides Kaiser himself, the only other one was Kelleher. “Get that aircraft back in its hangar and shut it down and await further orders. We’ll be going radio silent until I say so. The rest of us still here will be joining you shortly but be prepared to leave.”

Legion didn’t find it in herself to keep arguing. Instead, she made it back to her chair and buckled in as she felt, slowly, the aircraft begin to taxi back into its nested home, and she could barely hear the hangar doors shut around it over the noises of the calamity outside. Time wasn’t making sense anymore to her, and right now, she wished she could have nothing more than a simple, boring, cup of warm instant coffee. Half of her mind was torn in two with the desire to get out of the plane, put on one of the masks that they wore when operating closer to exclusion zones like those at Yellowstone, and stare at the end of the world that seemed to be unfolding outside, while the other half had thoroughly frozen her in place to prevent her from doing anything that would even think about risking her own life.

She was smart enough to connect the dots; the world outside was burning as it had done four-hundred thirty-two years ago. To what exact degree, no one knew; she could hear the radio was now filled with the crackle and pops of the Cordium interference once more. She remembered it well from the Meilynx; that had been the last time until today that she’d served in a role far closer to what her Ronin assignment should have suggested. If today hadn’t gone the way it did, at least.

Without a thought, her fist came down on the console in front of her as her anger and frustration totally overwhelmed her, even if she came to immediately regret the act as the pain shot through her arm. A few seconds later, though, she heard the loading ramp set down on the concrete of the hangar; while the hangar wouldn’t be as well sealed as the pressurized airplane, it was enough to finally coax Legion from her seat. Slowly, the pathways that formed in her mind for over almost a decade of work with Sicario, with Ronin, with all these damned fools began to fire once more as she felt her feet begin to move underneath her once more. Her usual grim look was no different from the additional layer of grim that she normally felt, and it had only taken Legion a few moments of thought to realize that there was still plenty of cargo space left on this last Circus transport; even with whoever was still on base, there would be plenty of space for more to be loaded on.

The grim look on Legion’s face, if just for a second, bore a mild suggestion of a smile within the corner of her lips. She had work to do, Legion had realized. She could see the writing on the wall for what the orange that she’d seen ever-so-briefly outside had suggested for the long-term viability of Rowsdower. She wasn’t a damned fool.

She was Legion. She had work to do.

And so, donning a respirator that tugged at her hair as she began to step off of the plane, Legion did just what she did best, because it was the only thing that she truly believed in doing: she got to work.

* * *

She’d already been mostly done by the time that Hitman team had dared to reveal themselves as alive, hailing the entire base for any sign of life. If Ronin had been here, she would have questioned Kaiser’s decision to play dead; apart from her, Ronin wasn’t there. As far as she was aware, they were likely all dead now.

There wasn’t any grief inside of her. Not now. If it was going to threaten to bubble up, Legion had already forced that to be at a later time. She’d not been able to bear witness to whatever spectacles Hitman team pulled off, sealed up in the hangar of the last Circus transport, but her location let her bear witness to the chaos that ensued once their contact with the CIF had dared to poke his nose where it didn’t belong. As the operating leader of Ronin, it only made sense for her to be there.

The operating leader of Ronin. Those words felt weird as it bounced around Legion’s mind, but without any understanding of if the rest of the team was still alive, much less combat operable, and without them having any way of communicating that status with the rest of Sicario, that’s what she was now, wasn’t it?

It felt wrong. She wasn’t a leader. She could chew people into shape, maybe, but she wasn’t a leader. She never had been, and she never wanted to be. It wasn’t something unfamiliar to her, but the thought of doing it pragmatically alone was.

It wasn’t in her job description.

Then again, neither was surviving the second end of the world, and yet, she still managed to somehow pull that one off without any hitch.

The off-putting face she’d been wearing as she listened to Stardust ramble had only gotten worse when he revealed that he was going to be sending Kaiser off to assemble a legion of mercenaries, her scowl deepening as she glared at the air between the Cascadian and her boss. Without Kaiser, that, pragmatically, left one person with more authority than her, and that was Galaxy. Possibly Monarch, but they were even less apt for any sense of authority than she was, and Legion had gotten the impression by now that the pilot was Hitman’s flight lead less for their ability to lead and more for their ability to fly.

Kaiser was metaphorically sticking around, however. That meant she was too. Sicario had saved her from the worst aspects east of them on this continent, freed her from being stuck there for the rest of her life. She had her reasons to stay, but she was surprised to hear Hitman team still considering leaving. With his second case, however, Stardust managed to convince them to stay.

And Legion forced herself to try to forget what exactly he had to offer to them to be able to do so. It wasn’t for her to know, so with any sense in her mind, she knew it’d do her well to forget it. She set her mind on the present, instead: Legion still had a few more things to grab. Not supplies, this time: Circus was already loaded with those; she had to get the few things that she managed to gather for herself. Clothes and the like.

Stalking through these halls that were quickly about to become permanently lifeless brought forth interesting memories to Legion’s mind; she wondered if this is what it had been like for Ronin all those years before. The loose bouncing of her rifle against her back didn’t help settle her mind, nor did the flickering emergency lights. How easy the door to her dorm was to open, now, felt like a warning of how much danger she’d been in all along had anyone just taken the moment to try and put her in such, even if, surrounded by her family in Sicario, she’d been in perhaps the most secure place in the world.

Her mind paused, her hand lingered on the door handle, and her eyes scanned the still-mostly-blank room in front of her. Her family? It felt weird to her, even after this time, to even remotely consider that she’d perhaps let Sicario, as a whole, be that close to herself and her own identity, but if she was nothing but her work, and her work was for Sicario, it made some discombobulated line of sense.

The steps she took into the room were hesitant. She’d barely spent any time in this room, but now it was time to say goodbye. It felt weird. In all of the time that she’d spent with Sicario, she’d spent much of the time with her walls built up, keeping her separate and sterile from the rest. With Solana up, people had finally gathered the desire to try to worm their way in (had there truly been nothing better to do, she wondered, than try to waste time appeasing her?) it seemed.

After the better part of a decade with Sicario, she’d finally let them.

Though Legion was well aware that the world didn’t revolve around her, that the world didn’t care about her, at some small level buried deep within her mind, Clarissa felt as though this was her punishment for even daring to let that door be opened. She wouldn’t be hesitating here now if she’d never let them get their foot in the door.

With a sigh, she got moving. Her duffle bag was under her bed, still partially filled from when they moved into Rowsdower with a set of civilian clothes. Hoisting it over to her dresser and her desk, she gathered up what little she had. First was a second set of instant coffee, separate from the stuff she kept in her desk. Better two have two sources than just the one. Two turtlenecks, one with sleeves, one without – the latter of which Gemini had forced her to take as a gift. She still wasn’t sure how to feel about it. A mug, still stained at the bottom, that Prez had gotten her recently: on it was written “Logi-chan”. It made no sense to Legion, but when she asked Prez for an explanation, all she’d gotten back was a simple laugh before Prez had said, “Sometimes, you’ve just got to find something amusing and laugh about it without thinking about it too much, y’know?”

At the time, Clarissa didn’t know, but now, it got a dry chuckle from her as she remembered. A few more uniforms, including another one of her usual tactical hoodies. The last thing Legion packed was a knife: it was ornate and beautiful yet still somehow practical, and it was a gift from Crunch. If you were to believe his tales, he was a rather good knife fighter, too. She wasn’t sure how much she believed, especially when he tended to then adopt an even deeper Oceanian accent and say, “that’s not’a knife, this is a knoife!” and laugh at himself as if he was the peak of comedy. The memory earned another dry chuckle as she set it at the top of her stuff packed within her duffle bag, before zipping the bag up and hoisting it over her right shoulder.

There wasn’t any lingering happiness within Clarissa as she left her dorm, but she wasn’t sure how else to precisely describe the overwhelming lingering nostalgia within her system as she slowly paced her way back to the last surviving Circus transport. It wasn’t sadness or frustration as she recounted how she’d let down her guard and, if only temporarily, been rewarded for even thinking about the thought of trying to make a friend and, after the better part of a decade, finally work towards breaking down the barrier that she’d forced up between her work and her “social” life, even if the latter didn’t exist.

It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t sadness. It just was.

Neither Legion nor Clarissa were entirely sure how that realization left them feeling, beyond hollow.

* * *

This was supposed to be home for… however long.

A tunnel full of abandoned construction equipment, temporary apartments for the workers who would have manned them, and the few aircraft that Sicario managed to save, all of which were full of their last few survivors. Some of the other survivors of Rowsdower were here too, other mercs that didn’t have the sense to flee, CIF troops that didn’t know where their command actually was.

Of Sicario’s ground troops, there was… her. Just her. A few injured troops from the other deployments. Their armored divisions were deployed with the missing Circus flights. Gemini – no, Gunsel squadron seemed to have been lost with all airframes unaccounted for, as was Cariburn squadron. Hitman was in rough shape, but they were all still alive.

It was her, Hitman team, and Galaxy. Her. Hitman. Galaxy. Legion had already found a desk in what she assumed to have once been a foreman’s office that she was claiming as her owns, and she found herself really wishing that she had found a bottle of liquor on her way out of Rowsdower. Or a packet of cigarettes.

Her, Hitman team, and Galaxy. That just didn’t sound right. She knew Kaiser was alive, but he wasn’t here right now; if he had any sense, he wouldn’t return and would run off with the money. She knew, deep down, that Kaiser would never do that, but deep inside of Clarissa’s stomach, she really wished he would. No one had any of the energy to offload supplies today, not even herself. She could see down the open hatch of that damned transport, all of the supplies loaded up. Outside, the crackling of a radio that was plagued with cordium interference, receiving some sort of updates about the world outside. She was trying her damnedest to tune as much of it as she possibly could out, but the little words that sank into her head weren’t pretty words. They’d be in this tunnel for some time still.

Legion got the feeling that, soon, she wouldn’t be left with much work to actually be able to do. Maybe she’d be able to rest for once, but even that thought wasn’t a comfortable one to her. Part of her was still holding out on the hope that the seemingly-sucidial gung-ho idiots she worked the most with had managed to survive, somehow, but every rational part of her mind told her that she was an idiot for thinking that anyone else on Ronin even had a chance of being alive right now. They would’ve been knee deep in Prospero by the time things started to go to hell there, likely lazing targets or something.

She missed them. Legion’s logic may have wanted her to begin grieving now, so that it could be brief. If she started it now, she could act as though she’d expected this. Legion would be able to just continue on after a few tears, perhaps a bit more coldhearted, but alive.

For the first time in a long while, Clarissa’s hope remained. Gently, she lowered her head down onto her arm, which itself had been resting on the desk in front of her for some time, and she let her eyes fell shut. Clarissa knew that it was highly improbable – no, it was most likely impossible – that anyone else on Ronin besides her was alive. Maybe Crunch, if he’d been doing his job as a sniper right, or possibly even Fitz, depending on where Federation armor had decided to hole up and how he had decided he wanted to go about his duties.

It was a pipe dream, both Clarissa and Legion knew, but as they fell asleep, it was enough to make it so that Legion’s dreams, for once, weren’t full of barbed wire.

Instead, just the void awaited her today.

* * *

Maybe it was deliberate, but as Legion looked over the supplies, now organized in store rooms and an empty bay – likely, at one point, designed to hold extra ventilation equipment in case traffic got backed up under this tunnel – she realized that she hadn’t seen the sky in two weeks. After she’d gotten everything off of Circus, she’d not been anywhere near the air to the outside, partially out of a desire to not want to have to wear a respirator, partially out of her own speed.

The first few days had been just simply memorizing the layout of the tunnel. It was all, then, that she had the energy to do. Other support staff, she began to realize, had made it too: there was someone else preparing food, some other people trying to assist here or there, and a lot of people, it seemed, just trying to get their bearings as she was. From there, organization had been easy, but as Legion witness more people seem to arrive, her first realization had been the supplies that’d been left here, even in combination with the ones that they brought, wouldn’t be enough for much more than another month at their current rate, and it seemed like new people were showing up every other day. A fighter here, a transport there. Nowhere near the bustle of Rowsdower, which was a blessing for making their current supplies last, but a curse, because most of the people Legion spoke to had little clues what was going on outside of their own aircraft.

She wasn’t nostalgic in the slightest for how left in the dark she was feeling; it reminded her too much of the home she’d left a long time ago and never had a desire to return to. The first week had been frustrating.

Slowly, Legion’s footsteps took her back to the room she’d been able to claim as her own. In size, it was somewhere between that of the dorm she had had at Rowsdower and a studio apartment, likely an incentive to keep the construction workers who would have once lived here in the corporate store so to speak. At least the water had been running by the time she’d arrived to claim this one as her own.

The second week had a breakthrough, at least, in supplies; though it was risky for people to fly in the atmosphere outside, some few fools were attempting to distribute leaflets anyways.

At least it provided a start, and a promise of the basics: food, for planes and for them, parts, and arms. From what it sounded like, the highway was near the center of all of this regions remaining CIF forces, so it would become the primary staging for a lot of things, which meant a lot of work for her. It took her mind off of things, but Legion was careful to avoid the remaining members of Sicario as much as she could in the days since.

Was her bed at Rowsdower this comfortable? She’d never slept in it enough to remember. There was less here to do than there was at Rowsdower, even when Solana was still operational, and it had forced Sicario to socialize amongst itself. The dim lighting of the windowless room would’ve been off-putting to any sane mind, but Legion didn’t mind the awkward orange haze.

She’d felt the knife Crunch had gave her in her hand once more, and she lazily brought it into view. The blade barely had any shimmer in the unnatural light down here, but even still, it reflected beautifully. Just as she began to mourn never taking Crunch up on his offer to learn his style of “knife fighting”, a knock at her door distracted her.

Setting it back atop all of the other things she’d not yet unpacked, Clarissa made her way to the door, opening it to find herself standing face to face with Prez, who held two cups of coffee in her hand and wore an awkward grin on her face. With a nod, Legion let Prez into the room and watched, a tilted up eyebrow quizzical. “Gotta suck up somehow,” Prez simply stated.

It was enough to get a snort out of Legion, even if she shook her head.

* * *

Prospero. Was it almost three months now?

The mask Legion wore was heavy to truly, properly breathe through, and her grip on her rifle tightened as she scanned around. There were parts of the city still too hot to traverse, but she could easily see why the CIF wanted to take the city once more. The base, underneath the city, still looked possibly functional. To take Presidia, it’d be a wonderful staging ground.

It still felt as though she was treading upon hallowed ground as she walked through the soot, which every step she took kicked up a fair bit of, just like light snow back home used to. Her rifle was heavy, even with the sling, and she could already feel herself having to will her body for each step forward. Hitman team had already cleared up the air as they were coming in for landing, and though the latent cordium had made it fuzzy, she’d heard most of the details from someone on the Federation side broadcasting to every channel his plane would let him, it seemed. She’d ask Galaxy for the rest later, after she returned to base.

Should she have been thankful that the CIF decided she was important enough to drag out here? She heard the crack of a lightning bolt somewhere in the distance, almost dragging her attention to it, but the ruined city ahead seemed to be calling to her. CIF forces were slowly beginning to roll in, and for a second, she hesitated. If she went in, she realized, she’d likely learn what happened to Ronin, and she wasn’t entirely sure if she could handle that. Legion could, or at least Legion could act like she could, but what would happen to Clarissa?

Was she even needed further? They’d made it clear that her assistance was appreciated, but not necessarily mandatory any further; she had every option to stop.

The rumble of an engine made up her mind for her. With just a few simple steps, she joined some CIF troops, who’s masks were just as fogged as hers, who’s uniforms matched with each other’s, and who seemed to be just as tired as she was, taking up the front passenger spot. The driver seemed mildly familiar, but only in the sense that Legion was pretty sure that he had been one of the survivors of Rowsdower too; he seemed to have the same level of familiarity with her, too. Maybe that’s why he waited.

Through the bullet proof windows, the city slowly passed. Even though they were almost certain there was no more Federation activity, the CIF was being smart, slow, and safe in how they advanced. Almost how Legion preferred to drive on the rare occasions she was forced to, but it was a far, far cry from how most of Ronin drove. Besides FNG, that was.

A glimpse of white paint caught her eye, poking out right at the corner of an alley. “Stop the vehicle,” she ordered.

“Ma’am?” At least he had the sense to address her properly.

“Stop this car,” she ordered once more, her voice firmer. There was something familiar about the symbols she was seeing, but she was too far, and moving too fast, to be able to make it out.

“Er, I’m not sure you have the authority to –” the driver began, his eyes drifting towards Legion. Then, he stopped as his sense kicked in, even though the other CIF personnel in the vehicle began to question. “Mercenary stuff,” Legion heard him add as she shoved her door open and stood up, which she only hoped was the truth.

They always had white paint in the storeroom; it wasn’t like her to have this be slipping her mind. She kept her pace moderate, just in case, but as she rounded the alley, she recognized the symbol immediately. Not for its meaning, but for the style. It was some sort of overly-tactical symbology used for communicating in code that Octo fell in love with, and Legion was still almost sure that it was because he saw it in a movie once and had decided to forever emulate it since.

It wasn’t recent, but Legion could tell, based off how specs of it seemed to have flaked off as she dusted the symbol and stuck to her glove, that it was painted after the soot fell.

Ronin survived the Second Calamity, as people had started to call it. She didn’t know if they were still alive, but they had at least lived through the end of the world.

Clarissa felt herself stand up a little bit straighter; her eyes had gone wide.

They were alive.

Ronin was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep! This isn't the end. I hit 5k, and went "...Fuck, I can't hit an ending I'm proud of here." So! Here's part 3, and Part 4 on obligatory Soon:tm: timing!


	4. Chapter 4

Kaiser was alive, and he came back – not only did he come back, but he did so with an entire fleet of mercenary aircraft in tail. Outside of the highways tunnel, high up on one of the berms, Legion stood, staring skyward, nursing a cigarette, and leaning against part of the concrete arch of the top of the tunnel. Smoking wasn’t a habit she liked to nurse often – she didn’t want to have to mention any dependency other than the one she had with caffeine – but as she heard the bustle of the tunnel echoing out, she’d decided she could finally take a break.

A lot of Sicario’s elements were still MIA, likely KIA if she was being honest with herself, but Clarissa had already seen proof firsthand that Ronin was still alive. That paint had been applied after the dust had fallen on Prospero; there was no way in hell, even after the months in between, that the entirety of the team besides her had died. For every ounce of charisma that Kaiser had, each member of Ronin had a similar power to survive the improbable – really, the impossible.

Her team was alive. Her friends were alive. With a dry chuckle at the thought, the grim smile on Clarissa’s face turned a bit more genuine as she took a drag of the cigarette. After Presidia, Kaiser wouldn’t have to promote her just yet.

“Miss McClaine,” she heard a voice call out from below. Speak of the devil. Carefully, she began to shuffle her way down the berm, extinguishing her cigarette on the last concrete divider before she was on the highway’s asphalt once more.

“Sir,” she replied, only a vague suggestion of formality on her voice.

“I think you’re well aware of the current plans,” Kaiser began to explain, “in the sense that we’ll be moving on to liberate Presidia in the next few days.”

“Everyone knows,” Legion replied, flatly.

“Glad to see you haven’t changed,” Kaiser joked for a second, before he continued. “This is currently shaping up to be an operation that will require all hands-on deck –”

“So I’ll be fighting?” Clarissa interrupted.

“Not exactly,” Kaiser explained. “The northern suburbs of Presida, as far as we can tell, are completely unoccupied by Federation forces. We need a small force, then, to drive through and check so that we can then set it up as both a logistical forefront and a triage center as well, allowing us to organize the CIF and mercenary forces on two fronts. With Ronin currently out of the picture—”

“Sir, if I may, I have reason to believe that Ronin is alive.”

Kaiser paused for a second, considering Clarissa for a second as he scanned her up and down. “That’d make sense, but even if they’re alive, Legion, we currently have no way to communicate with them to relay these orders. As well, they’d be better off inside of the city itself, where they can organize strike forces and direct munitions.”

With a deep breath in, Legion nodded. “Understood. You want me to lead this force, then?”

“Still sharp on the uptake, I see,” Kaiser replied with a smirk. “Are you okay doing that?”

No, Legion thought.

“Absolutely,” Clarissa replied. There was a slight smile still on her face as she rolled her shoulders and, for the first time in a while, felt confident about the coming days. The worst of the conflict now was behind them, and rumors of a pending ceasefire were swirling among the CIF forces she was assisting in coordinating the temporary logistics for. With the amount of Independence forces, as well as all of the independent mercs, this was practically something that was going to be phone’d in by them all; it was just a last shot of securing Presidia before the end of the conflict. With how little resistance the Federation had been able to put up after Prospero – Kaiser had brought rumors of various Federation states considering leaving once they found out the Federation was at fault – it was impossible to even consider thinking that they’d lose.

“We’ll make them pay, Legion.”

Even when Legion started to think of all of the possibilities for this to go wrong, she wasn’t too pessimistic about the odds. At worst, a bloodbath that still results in their victory. No matter what, she knew that tomorrow would be the end of this, and Sicario would finally be able to leave and begin again once more somewhere else. She wasn’t sure if she liked that; Clarissa was finally starting to get used to Cascadia properly, and it sounded as though Hitman Team had some personal connections that might make it worthwhile for Sicario to take a break. Plus, given how many people they’d lost, she couldn’t imagine that they really had any capacity to actually leave Cascadia right now. They had enough of a hell of a time organizing their logistics to the highway, and that was _with_ the CIF’s overwhelming support.

Legion, for once, decided to get an early rest, knowing already that tomorrow would be a long day. Sicario, Kaiser, the CIF, everyone was sure that it would be an easy day, an easy victory; Legion had her doubts, but the ignited kindling inside of her held some optimism for how tomorrow was going to work.

And for once, when she closed her eyes in her bed, Clarissa’s dreams weren’t filled with the barbed wire of her past.

* * *

She was grateful for her empty stomach as the helicopter jolted in the wind, Presidia’s downtown visible easily outside of the front of the helicopter. Legion’s grip on her DMR tightened with every shake of the airframe, but she could see the beginnings of the suburbs ahead of them. For once, she wasn’t tasked with riding along in the logistics plane or helicopter that, by now, should have already dropped the vehicles they’d be using to secure the northern suburbs. They looked empty now in the midday light, hopefully abandoned by civilians as soon as the Federation tried to take control. She’d heard the stories that Sicario told about the evacuation; the Federation’s all-call that anyone still in the town was with the Independence forces and to have free engagement had been expected – but not one anyone who she’d heard talk about it had been happy to hear called.

Looking back in the helicopter, her eyes gazed over the other ten troops around her. They were a mishmash of what remained of the Circus, troops that’d been injured during Solana and thus weren’t in Prospero, and CIF forces; compared to her nonstandard Ronin outfit, everyone else’s outfits seemed to blend. With a deep breath in, Legion closed her eyes and shook her head, letting the breath out as a long, soft sigh. Reaching to the foregrip of her rifle, she dragged back the charging handle on the right side of it and let the bolt slam back forwards, and a second later, she felt the jolt of the helicopter landing in an open cul-de-sac – even if she’d memorized the itinerary, it was still more luck than skill that she’d timed it so well. At the very least, it hadn’t been consciously intentional.

She was the last to dismount, and she watched as the squadron with her split themselves between three vehicles that had, at worst, been there for only an hour before them. No words were shared between them, but the majority of the CIF forces there chose their own vehicles, leaving two of the Circus with them and then Legion and the last two with the last vehicle. The engines started, and they were all off, with just the driver’s communicating between them as Legion simply radioed their status in. At first, they were slow and careful, clearing the edge of town precisely, but when it became readily apparent that the area had been a ghost town for at least a week, if not longer, they picked up the pace. Clarissa bit back her order for them to slow down; the faster they got this done, the more ground they covered, the quicker that she’d be able to find out the truth as to where Ronin is. If she had to guess, they were in the city proper; it only made sense that, without any resupply in sight, that the team would have gone guerilla in the heart of where the conflict was sure to progress by the end. She could almost picture Kelleher giving the orders as her gaze drifted between the passing buildings, every block cleared reported back as the squad grew further apart as each vehicle sought to cover more ground. Houses began to turn to shops and apartments, the suburb gradually growing more city-like as the suburbs smaller version of Presidia loomed ominously into view. The crack of a jet pushing past the sound barrier overhead reverberated through the vehicle, and when Legion’s eyes briefly caught sight of the tail, she saw two things: the mercenary roundel, and the white butterfly crown on the tail of an F/S-15 speeding into Presidia. In the distance, howitzers and other artillery pieces began to fire, and the orange, Cordium-laced trails of railguns firing filled what she could see to her southeast. They’d secured the forward operating area for triage, Legion realized, and more by now in the small head start from the rest of the fighting forces, and now it was time to –

“Driver, stop,” Legion ordered, and unlike the CIF forces, her Circus driver responded instantly. Opening the door, Legion’s rifle came to her shoulder naturally, though the barrel remained at the ground, as she recognized movement into an alley. She heard the others dismount behind her, and a question began to spring out as to her orders before a singular shot rang out, wide of all of them and impacting a building behind them. Footfalls went into an alley, but Legion could already recognize that this alley, based off of the shops, would likely end up in a dead end. Her rifle was held a little bit tighter, beginning to swing upright, as she slowly marched to the left corner of the buildings ahead, the other two behind her slowly filing to the other side. Down the alley, the person who’d shot at them – she recognized the Federation standard rifle first, and the Federation uniform second – was frantically staring at the closed in walls around them, eyes darting around, before they finally looked back out towards them. Their grip was sloppy on the rifle, as if they didn’t know – or didn’t want to – use it, and for a second, Legion paused. Then, slowly, she stepped out of cover, lowering her rifle as she did so. The two Circus besides her looked in confusion, and she just shook her head at them.

“D-don’t! I’ll shoot!” the soldier cried; voice distinctly feminine. Yet no shots came even as Clarissa took a step forward.

“Don’t,” Clarissa replied. “It’s over.”

“I-I…” Clarissa could easily recognize the soldier in front of her, like she’d been so many years before, was a conscript, here against their will. They were shakily holding their rifle, pointing it at her, but the barrel drifted so much with every frantic, scared breath the soldier was taking that Clarissa knew the bullets wouldn’t hit her even if the soldier did pull the trigger.

“You don’t want to do this,” Clarissa softly cooed. She could almost feel the bewildered stares of the Circus levelling on the back of her head.

“W-what choice do I even have, then! They’ll – if I don’t, it’s insubordination, they’ll –”

“They’ll what?”

“They’ll kill me!”

Clarissa paused for a second, and then just shook her head. “They can’t. The Federation is falling apart, if you just surrender now, you’ll live. I promise.”

With big doe eyes, the soldier looked into Clarissa’s own, and Clarissa could make out the tears that seemed to be streaming down their face. For a second, the soldier’s eyes darted towards the rifle, towards Clarissa, towards the two soldiers behind her that still had their own rifles trained, and with a shaky breath in, they nodded. “Okay,” they mumbled, and they nodded once more.

The two Circus members began to move forward, and Clarissa nodded. For a moment, she turned back around, back towards Presidia, and watched the chaos in the sky unfolding. The burning corpse of an airship was falling to the ground, likely to crush some part of the city closer to Presidia’s heart in the process, and she heard her radio light up in her ear. “Took you long enough. Ronin to all friendly callsigns.”

Clarissa gasped. She’d been proven right. Kaiser’s words in response meant nothing; she only continued to listen and heard Captain Kelleher describe exactly what she’d expected them to be doing to Kaiser. A smile formed on her face: her team – her friends, more accurate, as she was beginning to accept – were alive.

Maybe not all of them, but if Kelleher was alive, she had good expectations about –

A scattering of automatic gunfire broke out behind her, more reminiscent of a dropped open-bolt gun going off than any deliberate action. The first bullets hit into concrete, then Legion felt a searing pain on the outside of her right thigh before two crashing impacts knocked the wind out of her and her to the ground as she tried to recover from the unexpected blow. She could see the blood begin to stain the concrete under her as she tried to push herself upright, her ears unable to properly hear the commotion behind her.

Clarissa’s arms buckled; she’d been shot before, but usually, all of the rounds hit her armor. Not like this. Legion’s mind went to the worst case immediately: if her femoral artery had been included in the hit, she was already as good as dead.

Then, Clarissa simply passed out. There were no dreams in her blackness this time.

* * *

Winter was beginning to set upon the area that was once Rowsdower Air Force Base, and, in time, would once again be Rowsdower Air Force Base. In the months following the aftermath, what remained of Cascadia has established a memorial there, a monument to the mercenary forces that had fought in the war and the loses that they had suffered in the name of Cascadia’s independence – it had been debated for half of the time as to whether or not the mercenaries were even worthy of it, given that many of them had been fighting for money, if not the sheer thrill of combat, but eventually, it was decided that even if their cause may not have been just, their sacrifice for the cause was still worthy of remembering. At the center of the memorial was a flat, roofless rotunda, each pillar bearing a company that fought, the largest of which was Sicario’s. It was at the north point of the rotunda, in line with the tip of the circular star emblem all mercenary planes were born with; it listed the name of everyone who served – lived or died – with Sicario during the conflict by full name, as well as their tacname. In life, they were names Sicario rarely used.

Outside of the rotunda was a graveyard, which served as the gravesite for every soldier that had served at Rowsdower and died, even if a body hadn’t been found. After Prospero, and then Presidia, it was assumed untold bodies had been left simply unrecoverable.

Of those graves, there was one: Clarissa McClaine. AC 403 – AC 432.

* * *

A violent shake woke Clarissa up with a start, followed by the sound of wind buffeting the tent that she could now see surrounded her. There was an IV jammed into her left arm, some stitches on her thigh that she could feel even through the painkillers that they jammed her full of, and what was most definitely a broken rib based off of the bandages restricting her breathing. Should she have been surprised that she was still alive? She felt surprised, but in the back of her mind, two voices were shouting; one sang that she should be excited and relieved, the other was reminding her to simply wait for the boot to drop.

With a deep breath in, Clarissa McClaine closed her eyes and just listened to the world around her. She wasn’t alone in this tent, but she could hear the noises of other injured around her. There was a sound of commotion outside, but nothing unexpected for a war zone to her mind. For once, she realized, she was looking forward to seeing Voodoo’s face, even if Ronin’s medic had a reputation only surpassed by her for fear instilled in Sicario’s other members. The supposed witch doctor, and the tired logistics officer.

She could feel her consciousness fading once more, and thankfully, she was left only in the black once more. When she slipped back into it, it was with the sound of a lightning bolt’s crack, drawing her eyes to the flap of the tent. It reminded her greatly of the setting sky on a drawn-out day, but there was a haze to it like that of a wildfire.

Or the haze of when the mountains around Rowsdower erupted.

Clarissa slowly blinked, trying to disseminate whether that was correct or if her eyes had just been playing their mindless tricks on her. Someone came into the tent, but they seemed to be just as dazed as she was. CIF uniform. The commotion outside seemed to have picked up, and in the fluttering of the tent flap left in the soldier’s wake, Legion saw another orange bolt strike into the ground.

That had confirmed the doubt that had been brewing in her mind through the last bout of consciousness, but it wasn’t something that she was sure as to how she should react to. As far as she could tell, looking over the other people in the medical tent with her, none of them seemed to be Sicario. Not even any of the other mercs. Just CIF and, to her surprise, Federation troops.

She wondered what happened to the soldier that had surrendered, only to – seemingly accidentally, at least Clarissa hoped – shoot her while setting down their weapon. Were they still alive, or did the Circus not let that happen at that point? Gently, she squeezed her right hand shut with her eyes, trying to steady a breath. In the process of doing so, Legion felt herself pass out once more, where, finally, a dream awaited her.

She could recognize the snow immediately, but there was something different about the scene. She wasn’t in the weird civilian conscript uniform that had cemented itself in her mind, but her tactical hoodie instead. Black jeans, combat boots. Proper fighting gear. As she took a step, she felt her rifle bounce against her back; she heard the sirens start. She wasn’t supposed to be here, not like this. She had the power to change things, but for some reason, that only set off more alarm bells in Legion’s mind.

Instead, she slowly walked along the path that she normally would have. There was a rather large hole already cut into the courtyard’s fence, which only led to Legion’s pace slowing to a crawl; she forcibly slowed her quickening breathing as she felt the edge of the hole. It was a deliberate cut, still jagged slightly. Unlike usual, there were no screams chasing after her. Caution abundant, she moved forwards. She was operating under autopilot, even if her mind was forcing the actions out slower, she knew this path too well to deviate. It made no sense to.

All at once, the barbed wire appeared in front of her, but she was able to stop herself from falling into it. Legion wasn’t sure if she was glad she did, however, because she saw someone already stuck in it, already maimed.

She was already there; trapped under the barbed wire was Clarissa McClaine, all those years ago, still struggling. Slowly, she sat down into the snow besides the stuck woman. She lacked the tools to help free herself, so there was nothing else she could do but wait. And wait. And wait. For the Ronin who had saved her to show up.

She woke up before they did. She heard them in the distance as her dreams left her, but she didn’t see them. Instead, as her eyes blinked off the slip that’d came over them, she saw Kaiser, in a chair, at the foot of the bed. He was reading a book, but as he turned the page, he caught notice of her open eyes and closed it instead, turning to face her. “Good to see you’re still with us, McClaine.”

Two things immediately caught her attention: the fact that Arnold “Kaiser” Frenken had referred to her by name instead by callsign and the fact that his voice lacked any of the usual charisma, energy, and charm that had made Kaiser such a seemingly natural leader. As she looked around the tent, every other occupied bed only had CIF forces now, besides her own. “Sir,” she spoke, her voice cracking from dryness.

“Can you stand?”

Gently, she pressed her hand to the stitches. It had been a grazing blow, carving out a small chunk of fat and skin. It hurt, but as she put pressure on it, then shifted, she realized she could definitely stand. She nodded.

“Good. You’ve got to get moving,” he flatly explained, tossing a small black leather-bound booklet her way. “Get your things from the base.”

“The highway?”

“Correct. Grab your things,” Kaiser continued, but she had to interrupt.

“Kaiser, what the hell happened? I felt the ground shake from here!” She already knew, deep down, but she needed to confirm it.

He took in a deep breath and pinched at the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. “Another cordium bombing. Downtown Presidia is gone, with much of the city now in ruin. It’s all done now, but it’s all gone.”

“Where’s the rest of the team?”

“Didn’t you hear me? We’re done. It’s all gone.”

Those words let her finally acknowledge the hollow feeling in her chest, the worries that she’d hoped weren’t true, and she just nodded. “Understood.” She looked away as she took out her own IV – she’d never been a fan of needles – and stood, gently holding the booklet as if she was unsure what to do with it. Standing up hurt, the stitches searing with pain, but it wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation.

“Get your things. We’ll bury the rest.”

Besides the clothes that she was currently wearing, there wasn’t going to be a lot for her to recover from the base, but she understood why Kaiser was sending her back. It’d be the last time for her to truly say goodbye.

Neither of them said another word as she made her way out of the medical tent. She saw one of the Circus still nearby, and they locked eyes. With a small nod, they set out together.

* * *

AC 432. She’d turned 29 during the conflict, and she hadn’t even had the time to celebrate. Gently, she brushed her hand against the gravestone, staring at what used to be her name. For a second, she opened up the black booklet once more. “Claire Blackwell”. Even though the name was so close to what it used to be, she only rarely heard the name Clarissa during the majority of a decade that she’d spent with Sicario. Gently, from her side, she pulled out an ornate knife (had it not been for the light snowfall, it might have even glistened a bit in the sunlight) and knelt down besides the grave, and pressing it to the stone, she began to carve. It’d likely ruin the blade, she realized, and that was fine. It was a gift from a dead man, anyways. The memories she was forcing herself to remember now would do far better a nostalgia trip than it could ever do.

It didn’t take too long for Claire to finish her work. “Legion” was all the tablet needed added. With a deep breath in, she just softly shook her head as she stood up and stared down at the gravesite, a mixed sense of comfort and yearning settling into her heart. By official records, and now by her own account, the person she was once was now truly dead, leaving only her. It didn’t feel right to be allowed this “second” chance, even if, for her, it was a third. She left her hand resting on the top of the gravestone as she closed her eyes and took in one last deep breath, beginning to walk away as she left the breath out. Legion had made a lot of mistakes during her time, Claire had realized. Not in her work, which had always been flawless, but elsewhere.

But there was always one constant: she never made the same mistake twice. She wasn’t about to start now. Gently, she felt around in her pocket until she pulled out a small business card. Claire Blackwell had a few more months before the Cascadian Foreign Legion would be finalized, and its leader, one Arnold Frenken of Sicario fame, would need help.

It was an option this time. Ronin’s lifetime contracts to Sicaro, to Kaiser, had been served by all but her, and even then, he’d been clear that he didn’t expect her to return. Maybe she shouldn’t, but he was more than just a leader to her, a father to his men.

Out of everyone left alive from Sicario, Kaiser was now the closest thing she had to a friend. Claire realized she couldn’t afford to risk losing that.


End file.
